


Thank You, Gregory

by GobletCharm74



Series: "Come Back to Me, John" Companion Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Somewhere in Time (1980)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Big Brother Mycroft, Budding Romance, Caring Lestrade, Drug Use, Grief, Infidelity, M/M, No period-typical homophobia, Protective Mycroft, Second meeting, Vomiting, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GobletCharm74/pseuds/GobletCharm74
Summary: One year after meeting the Holmes brothers at the Baker Street Hotel, Greg Lestrade is reunited with them, although under less-than-ideal circumstances.A "Come Back to Me, John" companion ficlet.





	Thank You, Gregory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlee/gifts).



> I'm back with this long-overdue addition to the "Come Back to Me, John" universe; my amazing beta and sister, Katie, asked for this months ago. Katie, thanks for all your help and support with my writing, and sorry you had to wait so long for this. I hope the Mystrade makes up for it! <3
> 
> Like the other one-shots in this series, it won't make much sense unless you read my longer fic "Come Back to Me, John" first.

1913

Greg Lestrade strolled down the grimy streets of Whitechapel, keeping an eye out for criminal activity. It wasn’t normally his job to make rounds like this, but he did not have a homicide case to work on at the moment, and lately he had been eager to volunteer for extra work outside his division, even something as mundane as this, if it got him out of the house. He was avoiding his wife. Their marriage had been in a bad state for years, but the final straw came when Greg discovered that Maud had been unfaithful to him (and to think, she had had the gall to attack him merely for showing interest in other people!). It was just the excuse he needed to divorce her. He had warned her of his intentions just last week, and ever since then the atmosphere between them had been icy at best.

Greg wandered past an alley, glancing down it – and paused. There was a figure slumped on the ground. That wouldn’t have been cause for concern in and of itself – plenty of people slept outside in this part of London – but Greg was concerned about the other figure of a man leaning over the prone form. He could be hurting them, or stealing from them. Greg decided he had better see what was going on.

Upon reaching the two figures, however, Greg quickly realized that the upright one was attempting to rouse the other man, who appeared to be unconscious.

Greg cleared his throat, and when the man looked up, asked, “Everything okay?”

The man’s eyes widened as he took in the police officer stood in front of him. He stood in front of the unconscious man, obviously attempting to hide him from Greg’s sight, and nodded his head frantically. “Everything’s fine, sir.”

Greg was not convinced. He gave the young man his most gentle smile. “It’s okay, lad. You’re not in trouble, I promise. But your friend there seems to be ill or hurt.” He gestured towards the man on the ground. “I just want to help.”

The young man looked at him suspiciously, then glanced back at his friend, clearly debating what to do. His concern for his friend must have won out over his distrust of police officers, though, because he finally gave a sigh and stepped to the side, allowing Greg to get his first good look at the unconscious man.

What he saw made him nearly gasp out loud. He recognized the young man, and it took only a few seconds for him to remember where he knew him from. This was the kid he had met at the Baker Street Hotel during his and Maud’s terrible holiday last year! The slightly arrogant, overly enthusiastic one who had essentially solved a murder for him. The one with the handsome older brother…

But now he was almost unrecognizable. Where before he had been vibrant and youthful, well put-together with expensive clothes and perfectly curled hair, thin but strong, and practically glowing with excitement and with the love he so clearly felt for his beau, now he was dirty and dressed in tatters, totally emaciated and sickly-looking, and, of course, unconscious. What had happened?

Greg knelt down next to the young man – Sherlock Holmes, Greg remembered his name was. Holmes was breathing, but his temperature seemed dangerously high, and when Greg felt for his pulse, it was erratic.

The friend knelt down as well. “I think he took too much cocaine.” At Greg’s startled look, he continued, “He’s been using it for about a year now, but I’ve never seen him this bad before.”

_About a year._ This must have all started shortly after Greg last saw Holmes.

Greg started to pull the unconscious young man into his arms. “We need to get him to the hospital. Will you help me, ah, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Wiggins,” the other man replied. “But you don’t want to take him to a hospital. His brother wouldn’t like that. He’d want you to take him to their house. I can show you.”

Well, if that was what Mycroft Holmes wanted, who was Greg to argue? “Fine.” He looked Wiggins over. He looked rather malnourished; Greg wasn’t sure how much help he would be in carrying Holmes. So he stood and lifted the lad into his arms, easily bearing his shockingly light weight, and nodded at Wiggins. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Greg soon found himself in a cab with Sherlock Holmes’ head in his lap. Sherlock (as Greg had begun to think of him, to distinguish him from his brother) lay across the seat, still unconscious. Wiggins sat across from them. He had given the cabbie the Holmes’ address, and now they were headed into a much nicer part of London.

As they turned a corner onto a new street, the cab jolted a bit, and Sherlock stirred. Greg looked down to see him blink blearily and stare around in confusion. “John?” he rasped.

Greg gently put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “No, lad,” he said. “Your John isn’t here. But your friend Wiggins is, and so am I. Remember me? It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. We met at the Baker Street Hotel last year.”

To Greg’s horror, Sherlock’s eyes welled up with tears and his lip started to tremble, and before Greg could do anything about it, he had started to cry. “I want John,” he gasped out between sobs.

Greg felt a sudden rush of protectiveness towards the young man in his lap. He rubbed his shoulder. “Shh, shh,” he soothed. “It’ll be okay. Wiggins and I are taking you home to your brother. You’ll be safe there. And then I’m sure your young man will –” he broke off suddenly as Wiggins caught his eye and shook his head sharply. Greg backtracked. “I’m sure it will be nice to get home and…er…have a bath,” he finished lamely.

Sherlock just continued to cry, and Greg sighed, feeling useless. His head was spinning, too. Where was John Watson? Had something happened to him? He looked across at Wiggins, hoping he could give him some clue as to what had gone wrong, but the young man just glared at him as if this were all his fault. Greg massaged his temple. He needed a drink.

* * *

By the time they reached the Holmes’ house, Sherlock was mostly unconscious again. After paying the cabbie with money Greg gave him, Wiggins helped Greg manoeuvre his friend out of the cab and into Greg’s arms once again. Then Wiggins pointed at the grand house in front of them. “That’s the house,” he said. “Sherlock’s brother doesn’t know about me, so I’ll leave you here.” And with that, he headed off down the street, leaving Greg alone with an armful of very ill young man.

Taking a deep breath, Greg approached the front door, and, after shifting Sherlock’s weight slightly, rang the bell. He only had to wait a few moments before the door swung open, and Mycroft Holmes stood before him. Mycroft’s eyes passed over his face in an instant, lighting up in recognition, before they fell on Sherlock’s limp form. “Oh, thank god,” Mycroft breathed, seeming both relieved that Sherlock was home and worried at the state he was in. He waved Greg through. “Come in, please.”

Greg stepped over the threshold into a beautiful foyer; clearly, producing theatre was more lucrative than Greg had thought. Mycroft led him into an equally ornate parlour and gestured towards a settee. “Lay him here,” he instructed.

Greg laid Sherlock down gently, then stepped back as Mycroft began to fuss over him. “I found him unconscious in an alley in a bad part of town,” Greg explained. “I believe he’s on cocaine.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said simply, then looked at Greg sharply. “How did you know where I live?”

“Erm.” Greg squirmed under the other man’s scrutinizing gaze. “Sherlock has a friend, a poor young man, who knew where you live and showed me the way. He didn’t want to come in because he thought you wouldn’t approve of him, but he’s a fine young man, really.”

Mycroft looked momentarily startled to learn that his brother had a connection he was unaware of, but his face relaxed as he gave a resigned sigh. “So be it. I trust your judgement, Gregory. And thank you for bringing him home.”

“Of course.” Greg gave a cheeky grin. “You remember my name.”

Mycroft smiled back. “How could I forget?”

Greg felt a sudden rush of tenderness towards this man who seemed so tired and defeated, who must have had so much stress and worry in his life, and yet who remembered an encounter with an insignificant man like Greg from an entire year ago. Greg reached out a hand to gently caress Mycroft’s cheek, and Mycroft leaned into the touch – then they both jumped back and broke apart at the sound of Sherlock, awake once again, emptying his stomach onto the hardwood floor.

* * *

After calling the maid to clean up the mess, Mycroft hoisted Sherlock into his arms. Ignoring his brother, who was pushing weakly at his shoulder in protest, he nodded his head in the direction of the staircase. “I had better get him cleaned up.”

“I can help?” Greg offered. He truly wanted to lift some of the burden of caring for his brother off of Mycroft’s shoulders. The opportunity to spend more time with Mycroft was an added bonus.

Mycroft’s face softened in what Greg thought might be gratitude, and he nodded his assent, before leading the way upstairs to Sherlock’s en-suite bathroom.

At Mycroft’s instruction, Greg drew a bath, while Mycroft helped Sherlock out of his dirty clothes. Together, they helped guide Sherlock into the bath, then Greg left Mycroft to wash Sherlock while he went to find a clean nightshirt.

Sherlock’s room was just as ornate as the rest of the house, but unlike the other rooms Greg had seen, it was a mess. He worked his way through the mess to the wardrobe, which was surprisingly organized on the inside, with fancy suits hanging neatly. He quickly found a nightshirt and headed back to the en-suite.

When he re-entered the bathroom, Mycroft was just finishing bathing Sherlock, who was slumped in the tub, seemingly too weak to hold himself upright. Greg held out the nightshirt. “I got something clean for him to wear.”

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft grabbed Sherlock beneath the arms and hoisted him into a standing position. Sherlock swayed unsteadily, and Greg was at the brothers’ sides in an instant, helping Mycroft to stabilize Sherlock and manoeuvre him out of the bath.

Working together, Greg and Mycroft quickly dried and dressed Sherlock. Mycroft bent down to lift his brother into his arms again, but Greg reached out and touched his arm. “Let me take a turn.” Mycroft nodded and stepped back, allowing Greg to pick up his brother and carry him to his bed.

Greg carefully placed Sherlock on the soft, canopied bed in the middle of the bedroom, but before he could straighten back up, Sherlock’s hand shot out and clutched at the front of Greg’s jacket. “I want John,” he whimpered.        

Greg gently disentangled himself from Sherlock’s bony fingers. “I’m so sorry, lad. John isn’t here.”

“John, John, I need John,” Sherlock wailed, sounding desperate.

Greg heard Mycroft sigh. “Sherlock, you need to stop this. Watson is not coming back,” he said sternly.

“CALL HIM JOHN!” Sherlock bellowed. “HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR BROTHER-IN-LAW!”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock…”

“Stop saying he left me! He didn’t mean to! He didn’t mean to! You weren’t there. You didn’t see. He got pulled back to the future. He had to go back but he didn’t want to. I know he didn’t!” Sherlock dissolved into sobs again.

Greg shot a quizzical look at Mycroft, who shook his head sadly and beckoned Greg over to him. “He will be crying for a while,” Mycroft whispered when Greg moved closer. “I should stay until he calms down. I understand if you need to leave, but if you would like, please feel free to make yourself at home and I will join you downstairs once he is asleep.”

Greg supposed it wouldn’t hurt to abandon his post for a little longer – after all, he wasn’t technically supposed to be on duty anyway. He gave Mycroft’s hand a squeeze. “Take as long as you need. I’ll wait for you.”

* * *

After about half an hour, Mycroft found Greg where he had made himself comfortable in an armchair in the library. “Scotch?” Mycroft offered, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet that adorned one of the walls.

“A scotch sounds wonderful, thank you,” Greg replied. His mind was still spinning with all that he had witnessed that day; a stiff drink was just what he needed to take the edge off.

Mycroft poured two glasses of scotch and carried them over to where Greg was sitting. He handed one to Greg, then took a seat in another armchair facing Greg’s. For a few minutes, the two men sat in companionable silence, sipping their drinks.

Before long, Mycroft sighed and set down his glass. “I suppose you have questions.”

“Yes.” Greg nodded, relieved that he would finally get some answers. “How did this all start?”

“It was at the hotel where we first met,” Mycroft explained. “I had left Sherlock alone only briefly, but when I came back to our suite, I found that he had taken cocaine. I never did find out where he got it from.”

Realization dawned on Greg. “It was from a case he helped me solve. The desk clerk had been running an illegal cocaine trade in the hotel and had murdered a customer when their deal went wrong. Sherlock figured it out. He must have realized where Mr Hudson was keeping the cocaine and gotten into it before we came to take it away.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I should have kept a closer eye on him. I have tried so hard to keep him safe, and I have failed so spectacularly.”

Greg felt sorry for him. He leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on Mycroft’s arm, and Mycroft gave him a small, sad smile. Greg gave his arm a squeeze, before leaning back in his chair. “But I still don’t understand. The day I met Sherlock he seemed so happy and full of life. What changed so quickly?”

Mycroft grimaced. “This little adventure of Sherlock’s – was John Watson with him?”

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘little adventure,’” Greg said. “He did solve a murder, after all. But yes, he was.”

Mycroft gave a short nod. “Well, he’s the one who changed Sherlock’s life.” He went on to tell Greg the story of a mysterious man who had entered their lives abruptly, pestered Sherlock into spending time with him, stubbornly ignored Mycroft’s warnings to leave his brother alone, stole first Sherlock’s heart and then his innocence, and then promptly disappeared, leaving him devastated. Greg listened to the tale, shocked, but also puzzled. It didn’t add up. Mycroft made Watson sound so _predatory_ , but that hadn’t been the impression Greg had gotten of him at all. He had seemed genuinely besotted with Sherlock. But then why would he have abandoned him?

“I had every intention of taking revenge on him for what he did to Sherlock,” Mycroft continued his story, “but even with my considerable resources and connections, I could find neither hide nor hair of him. He seems to have vanished without a trace. I can’t find any record of his history either.”

“Maybe Sherlock is right,” Greg commented dryly, remembering Sherlock’s ravings from earlier. “He’s from the future and he had to go back.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft snorted. “Sherlock would never say such a ridiculous thing if he were sober.”

Greg chuckled sadly. “I suppose you’re right. There must be some explanation though, and forgive me, but I think you may have misjudged Watson.” He squirmed slightly under Mycroft’s suddenly sharp gaze, but cleared his throat and continued, “He seemed to truly care for Sherlock, deeply.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and for a second Greg thought he was angry. In the next moment, however, Mycroft’s eyes glazed over, as he seemingly became lost in thought. Greg waited patiently for him to process the new idea, and finally, Mycroft spoke, sounding agonized. “Perhaps I was wrong to try to keep them apart. If I drove Watson to leave, if it is my fault that Sherlock is now in this state…”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Greg cut him off before Mycroft could get into a spiral of guilt. “I only interacted with them briefly, but I could tell that Watson was devoted to him. He wouldn’t have left if he didn’t have to.”

Mycroft didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded, and the two men lapsed into silence again, Greg sipping his scotch, Mycroft staring contemplatively into his own glass.

Greg had finished off his drink before Mycroft broke the silence. “Well,” he said, sounding slightly unsure of himself. “How is your wife?”

Greg smirked. “Soon to be divorced.”

“Oh!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I see!” He gave Greg an almost shy smile, which Greg gladly returned.

“I’m sure you remember that we weren’t on the best of terms even a year ago,” Greg explained. “It’s only gotten worse since then. Now I’ve discovered that she’s been unfaithful, so I can divorce her.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. He didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Don’t be,” Greg waved him off. “I’ll be glad to be rid of her. Although,” he teased, “the adultery is partially your fault. Maud was jealous of you after our meeting at the Baker Street Hotel. I think she may have thought she was getting revenge by seeing other people.”

Mycroft chortled. “She was jealous of me? But we interacted so briefly!”

Greg looked him in the eye. “Our meeting may have been brief, but you made a strong impression. I protested against her accusations at the time, but now I can admit that she had every reason to be jealous.”

Mycroft blushed slightly. “You made a strong impression on me as well.”

Greg smiled. “I’m glad. And I’m glad I got a chance to see you again, even if it’s not the best of circumstances.”

“I feel the same way, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “I really cannot thank you enough for all your help today with Sherlock.”

“Any time.” Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out the small notebook and pencil he kept on him for taking notes on his cases. He wrote down his address, tore the page out of the notebook, and held it out to Mycroft. “Send me a telegram if I can help at all in the future.”

Mycroft took the piece of paper and carefully tucked it into his interior breast pocket. “Expect a telegram shortly,” he said. “I would like to take you out to dinner. I will send the details.”

Greg grinned. “Dinner sounds wonderful.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “I should probably get back to work now, though. I don’t want to overstay my welcome either.”

“You could never overstay your welcome,” Mycroft said, but he stood and saw Greg to the door.

On the doorstep, both men paused, reluctant to say goodbye. “I’ll look forward to your telegram,” Greg said. Mycroft just nodded.

Greg turned to leave, but before he could, Mycroft grabbed him by the front of his jacket and pulled him in for a kiss. The kiss was brief, but sweet, and it warmed Greg to his toes. When they pulled back, Mycroft was smiling. Greg found himself smiling as well, and his smile remained as he made his way down the front path and back towards his post.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!


End file.
